


House Hunting

by seperis



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-23
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:57:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3240509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first group of houses are all the kind that show up on the cover of Architectural Digest with the tacit understanding you don't live in them so much as revel in the fact you can afford to own them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first group of houses are all the kind that show up on the cover of Architectural Digest with the tacit understanding you don't live in them so much as revel in the fact you can afford to own them. Or conversely, are of the type where someone thought gold-leaf was the ultimate in home decorating.

On one hand, they make Adam question the sanity of the realtor; on the other, the sheer horror forces Kris to actually express a vocal opinion, on the order of, "No way in hell, Lambert," at the terrifying mirrored bedroom, which proves that someone can take something as beautiful and wholesome as mild exhibitionism and make it so very, very wrong.

"We could take down the mirrors," Adam says as Kris concentrates on the road with the look of a man who barely escaped death, or staring at himself from five thousand separate angles. "Repaint--well, okay, everything."

Kris gives him a look just on this side of panic.

"Granted, the murals were a little--" Adam searches for the right word to express the feeling of being watched by flat, painted eyes that followed you from room to room. Sure, they could paint over that, but they'd always know beneath the paint, _they were still there_. "Okay, yeah, that was unsettling."

"Someone actually _lived there_."

"I'm trying not to think about that too much," Adam answers carefully. It's not that he has anything against murals or modern art, but there's expressing artistic vision and then there's whatever the fuck that was supposed to be. "Call me crazy, but was there a Dante's Inferno going on in the dining room or--"

"Oh, there was," Kris says, fingers white-knuckled around the wheel. "Imagine coming home to _that_ after Burning Man this year and tell me we can _repaint_."

"I might find religion," Adam says, not sure he's joking. "Or a psychiatric disorder. Okay, so. First group: fail."

"Maybe talk to her about less avant-garde and more, I don't know, a place where the dogs won't be afraid to come inside?"

Adam looks at Kris thoughtfully. "You want a dog?" Kris had been involved with a fundraiser for some animal shelter a few months ago, and being Kris, now volunteered on alternate weekends and dragged Adam along whenever possible (read: a lot). Adam had been watching for escalation. "So we're at the dogs place now?"

Kris shrugs, shoulders set to defensive. "Maybe?"

"You're thinking of a _specific_ dog, though," Adam continues cheerfully; he's been curious how Kris would approach the subject for a while now. "Specific _dogs_ , plural."

"I was thinking of eventually getting a dog," Kris says, like this hasn't been obvious for fucking ever. "Maybe a cat," he adds in the spirit of compromise or something. "The lemon tree is still alive."

"Which we both admit may be the first verifiable miracle of the twenty-first century."

" _Alive_ ," Kris says firmly. "And I mean, after we get a house. The condo wouldn't really work--"

" _That's_ why you agreed to start looking," Adam says, enlightened. "Fuck like, space and traffic and paparazzi living _on our doorstep_ ; you were thinking of the best place for us to raise _puppies_."

Kris doesn't deny it.

"I have never found you more adorable," Adam says, trying unsuccessfully to fight down the giggling that if he starts now will _never ever_ stop, and Brad's couch is way too short to risk that. "Seriously. Puppies."

"It doesn't have to be puppies," Kris mutters half-heartedly, maybe thinking of the current crop at his pet animal shelter. "Forget it."

"I didn't say I was opposed to exploring your maternal instincts," Adam starts, enjoying this way too much.

Kris' left eyelid twitches.

"Just, do you think we're _ready_ for such a big step?" Adam settles back on the seat, keeping his eyes carefully off the road. Kris is a very good driver, which is a problem, because that makes him very different from the population of LA, who most definitely are _not_. "If you're thinking couch, let me remind you that means no sex, and it's not like you're a ball of sunshine the next morning when _that_ happens." Not that Adam is either, but Adam isn't interacting tomorrow with people he actually likes in a small, confined space where everyone is armed with objects that could double as weapons of blunt force trauma.

Kris meditates that. "True." Then. "It doesn’t have to be puppies."

"I don’t know." Adam considers the possibilities. "Will they have your eyes?"


	2. Chapter 2

In retrospect, Adam really thinks he should have known that it would take more than a couple of weeks to find a house; a good indicator of that might have been Neil and his mother's joint hysteria when he mentioned it.

They have seen; bungalows, town homes, lofts, cottages, villas, haciendas, mansions, and buildings supposedly zoned for residential use with names he never knew existed. He knows more about crown moulding, hardwood versus bamboo floors, open floorplans, square footage and LA's nightmarish real estate prices than anyone who doesn't work in the business should ever have to. He's even learned to ask the _really_ important questions, such as "did a crazy artist live here and create murals that were lately painted over?" and "are any rooms upstairs installed with deadbolted doors with tiny slits just large enough to pass food and water and the former owner's significant other mysteriously disappeared sometime in the past?" because hey, he's getting this _down_.

Kris just looks more and more like he's thinking even puppies aren't worth this shit; Adam has no particular feelings on raising puppies, but there's something really disheartening when your significant other watches the AKC/Eukanuba National Championship with a wistful expression. When he starts scheduling time for international dog shows, that's just--something. Adam's not sure what that is, but he trusts his instincts. Logically, Kris isn't going to leave him for someone who will provide a stable home for his hypothetical puppies; then again, logically, Adam is not a person who gets into a shouting match with a real estate agent on mosaic versus tile, so there you go.

They're both mostly quiet on the way back to the condo, avoiding the subject of this particular trip as best they can. This is a Friday night, and sure, it's the only time this week they both had time for this, he just spent a _normal Friday night_ discussing in all seriousness how he felt about gothic versus post-modern architecture, and he has no fucking clue what that conversation was about.

In short, he doesn't feel like a rockstar, but he has an uncomfortable feeling he's starting to sound a lot like his dad.

Kris goes to check his email while Adam moodily makes himself a sandwich and tries not to think too hard about the fact that--

"So," Kris says as he comes in the kitchen, looking at Adam across the length of the island with a determined expression. "I think--"

"Don't say it."

Kris bites his lip, looking down at the smooth granite. "We really--"

"Would a blowjob shut you up?" Adam asks hopefully, putting down the sandwich. "Take off your pants."

"--God," Kris breathes, eyes glazing a little, then shakes himself. "Look, I know we--"

"Don't--"

"We can't live there."

Adam silently hates him. "I know."

"I mean," Kris looks around, hunted, "we _can't_." Restless, he circles to the refrigerator, trying to look certain and okay with this when hey, he's totally not. "I mean, it's--it's high maintenance--"

"We'd need second jobs just for the air conditioning bill," Adam agrees, taking the bottle of water Kris offers and viciously twisting off the lid while wishing for alcohol, so much.

"Right! And it's--stupid, who would build that?" Kris takes a desperate drink of water. "It's ugly. It's stone. It has a drawbridge--"

Adam squeezes his eyes shut. No, don't go there.

"A drawbridge," Kris says, softer. "We could live in a place with a _drawbridge_ \--"

"And turrets and three towers-- _three towers_ ," Adam says, unable to help himself, then covers his face, because _no_. "Shut up, no, we can't--"

"--live in a castle," Kris agrees morosely. "Except tell me why again?"

Adam's hazy on that too. "Moat upkeep?"

Kris sighs, coming over to lean against him, looking heartbroken. "A _moat_."

"Yeah." Curling an arm around Kris' shoulders, Adam gives himself a moment to think of moving into a _castle_ , the weeks of decorating, getting a huge and overwrought and totally amazing bed for one of the towers--God, _towers_ \--and waving at the paparazzi from the fourth floor balcony as they stare in futile helplessness at his motherfucking _moat_. Possibly surrounded by puppies. Which don't, actually, take any of the charm away. The parties. Finding a suit of armor to add to the ambiance. Potentially getting Kris drunk and having a legit reason for dressing him up like Cinderella and the puppies (who are starting to fit too easily into his narratives these days, he notices uneasily, and in plurals, too) accessorized with tiny mouse ears and coordinated jackets. 

(For the hilarity, Adam tells himself firmly. Just for the hilarity. And there's always Halloween.)

Living in a castle. In LA. The jokes practically write themselves. And that's just the ones from their _families_. 

Adam sighs, petting Kris' hair in resignation. "The puppies would hate it." They really, really wouldn't.

"Yeah," Kris lies sadly. "They would."


End file.
